


Minutemen

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Original Work
Genre: Apocalypse, Disabled Characters, Doesn't take itself overly seriously, Eventual Relationships, Impossibly Multicultural Cast, LGBT characters, Lampshaded Tropes, Multi, Not in the way you think though, Online Friendship, Sci-Fi, Self-Harm, There's social commentary buried in here somewhere, Video Games Come to Life, YA, discontinued, poc characters, pov third-person, young adult
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-06-10 07:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6946135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the summer season of this year, Monolith Independent releases a game called UNDOING ONLINE, a server-based apocalypse survival experience. With little better to do, teenaged Cassandra Justice joins with her younger brother Ethan and meets a group of friends from all over the United States. Two years and one completed campaign later, the sky tears itself apart and animals mutate into strange, lethal creatures bent on attacking humanity. CJ doesn't think too deeply about how she and her brother survived, only jumps into action checking on the friends she made over UNDOING, and assembles a diverse team of adolescents that have two things in common: A love of the game, and a need to survive. When it becomes clear that the crevasse in the sky and mutation of the animals are more than mere coincidence, CJ and her friends unknowingly set on a quest to find the truth and get their world back.</p><p>Or: Eight thoroughly unimpressed adolescents drive an SUV illegally on the world's most dangerous roadtrip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CJ Trashes Georgia

**Author's Note:**

> So I needed to write original fiction sometime and
> 
> well it happened
> 
> enjoy yourself

The world has just ended, and the first thing CJ does is place a call to New Orleans. She sits on the covered front steps of what was once her aunt's house, with a backpack of provisions and her little brother playing with a Rubix cube, and waits for an answer.  
  
Her friend Erik picks up after two rings. He answers with a grunt. She exepected little else.  
  
"So did you see that?" she says.  
  
_"See what, exactly?"_ he replies. His voice is slurred, as if his mouth is numb. _"I see a lot of things."_  
  
"The hole in the sky," she answers. And she's seeing it right now, impossible to miss— the sky looks like it's been cleaved in two by some celestial axe, a crevasse ringed by pink and violet and blue clouds, tinged orange in the afternoon Georgia sunlight. The hole itself is nothing but void, but it seems deeper, more sinister than the space between stars that CJ sees every night.  
  
Erik hums. _"Oh yeah. That. Yeah, I saw it."_  
  
"And now a good chunk of the people around you are dead, right?" CJ asks. She's calm, for someone who just witnessed her foster family drop dead in the initial monster attack.  
  
_"Yeah,"_ Erik confirms. _"I always thought it was my dad's day job that'd kill him, not a horde of mutant gators, or whatever."_  
  
"You had gators? Damn," she remarks. "It was the chickens, for me."  
  
_"Damn chickens."_  
  
"I know, right?"  
  
_"Did the fosters make it?"_ Erik asks next.  
  
CJ glances back to the house. "Nah. Kyle and Blake were first to get hit. Have you gotten in contact with anyone else yet?"  
  
_"Not yet,"_ Erik grunts. He sounds as if he's shifting his phone to his other ear and hefts something onto his shoulder. _"You?"_  
  
"Ethan wants me to find Rita first," CJ recalls. "Hey, do you think someone's still alive enough to operate an Uber? I might head your way, we should probably stick together."  
  
_"I was just on my way to the other side of the country to check on Cecil, never mind that I don't know his address."_ She can't tell if Erik is joking or not. It'd be better in his interests to go North and find Walker first, or back East to collect Eva and Helia. Geographically, New York first would make sense.  
  
"Just go to LA, you'll find him somewhere," CJ guesses. "Keep me posted."  
  
_"Roger."_  
  
CJ hangs up. She sticks her phone back in the pocket of her jeans. Next to her, Ethan solves his Rubix cube, messes it up, and then solves it again. He has the hood of his sweatshirt drawn around the back of his neck, the cuffs covering most of his little hands. She has to wonder if he's going to ask to stop by the school, too, just to see if it's still in session. CJ would assume that it wouldn't be if ninety percent of the town is dead.  
  
"CJ," Ethan says, frowning. "I'm kind of scared."  
  
"Yeah," CJ agrees. "Can you find Stu's car keys? We'll have to drive to New Orleans if we're going to pick up Erik."  
  
"You can't drive, though, you're still only fifteen," Ethan brings up.  
  
"It can't be that hard," CJ waves a hand. "Just go find them, and if there are any chickens left alive, give 'em a whack. Could be worse, right?"  
  
Ethan grumbles admittance to that as he stands up, tucking his Rubix cube into his pocket. "I needed to get my chemistry set anyway," he mutters.  
  
"You're not seriously bringing the whole thing?" CJ calls as Ethan steps over their foster father Stu's corpse and fishes the car keys out of his coat pocket. "You'll have to carry it."  
  
"I can carry it fine," Ethan insists. "I'll make bombs to fight the monsters with. We can't all swing a bat around and call it a day."  
  
CJ sends a glance to her faithful wooden baseball bat, leaning against the porch railing. She has to admit, hand bombs are awfully useful against the many horde enemies in _Undoing_ , but since this is reality, she also has to wonder about the practicality of it. Besides, Ethan is twelve— can he really make effective bombs in a short amount of time?  
  
Something squawks off the porch— another mutated chicken, CJ thinks with mild disgust. She takes her bat and gives it a good smack, making a face at the sound of bone crunching and shaking the gooey blood off her bat. Ethan comes back out with Stu's car keys and his chemistry set tucked in his school backpack, the former of which he tosses to CJ.  
  
"I got the keys," he says. "Dibs on shotgun."  
  
CJ scoffs, but supposes she'll allow it. "Fine," she admits, unlocking the car and getting in the driver's seat. "Buckle up."  
  
She throws the backpacks into the backseat of the van. CJ will admit she doesn't really know how to drive, but she's watched her foster parents do it all the time, and she's studied the Georgia driving manual. The left pedal means go and the right one means stop— or is it the other way around?  
  
Ethan sits in the shotgun seat. He buckles up, looks at CJ looking with furrowed brow over the dashboard, and grabs the safety bar above the window.  
  
"R means reverse," CJ recites as the car comes to life. "Alright, there we go. Nice and easy."  
  
 Ethan didn't say it, but he knew 'nice and easy' wasn't how this ride was going to go. In what is perhaps a catastrophic self-fulfilling prophecy, their foster father's station wagon lurches backwards and knocks over the mailbox. CJ mutters the directions to Rita's house to herself as she starts onto the bumpy country road, skidding tires sending gravel hither and yon.  
  
And so begins the drive. CJ drives fast, but once the road smoothed out, it isn't as harrowing as Ethan initially thought. He pries his hand from the safety bar and turns on the radio. Stu's favorite CNN station comes up first, with the newscaster giving a report of the current global state of affairs.  
  
_"And the crack still remains in the sky,"_ Bob Caddage is saying, in practiced newscaster monotone. _"Experts say they've never seen anything like it, and are curious as to what this means. NASA has plans to send a weather balloon into the crack to take readings, however it's not optimistic any will come back, given that there's still no word from the crafts that were in the sky at the time of the crack's appearance—"_  
  
_Click._ Ethan changes it to another station. It's the Lindsay Curtis Power Hour, which Ethan doesn't like as much because Curtis talks too fast for him to keep up. But it's refreshing to hear the voice of a human being with emotion, even though she sounds frazzled.  
  
_"—Still not certain,"_ Curtis is saying. _"And strange, mutated creatures have been spotted on every corner of the globe, reportedly transformed right before our very eyes— including previously domesticated animals, ranging from ranch horses to apartment goldfish and everything in-between. Our experts at NBC advise that all you listeners out there stay away from zoos and aquariums until further—" Click._  
  
_"A large amount of religious advocates are gathering outside the halls of their cities and in their places of worship, saying the end is nigh and all the mortals can do is pray and repent for the end that is to come—" Click._  
  
_"But what does this sign from the sky mean, and could we as a species have done anything to prevent it? We have a theorist here who—" Click._  
  
_"Saying it's the next coming of Christ—" Click._  
  
_"—Blaming foreign powers for this new development—" Click._  
  
_"—Population has dropped like a stone since the initial attack, and more deaths are reported every minute, local hospitals and morgues are swamped—" Click.  
_  
_"—What can we do, we ask—" Click._  
  
_"—End of the world as we know it, it's the end of the world as we know it, it's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine…"_  
  
Ethan is about to change it again, but CJ stops him. "Chill," she says.  
  
"I want to know what happened as much as you," Ethan argues, while the music plays through Stu's car speakers.  
  
"I don't think anyone knows more than us," CJ retorts. She doesn't take her eyes from the road, but she does sigh. "All we can do is stick together and try not to die."  
  
Ethan thinks about that. He takes out his Rubix cube and fiddles with it. They drive through the outskirts of their little rural town with R.E.M. singing about how it's the end of the world in major key, which Ethan is certain is the point. He has a respect for artists with substance— classic rock, he always says, is real music. (To which CJ always rolls her eyes and tell him to live a little, which Ethan doesn't understand yet.)  
  
The song ends. In place of where a bit of current music news would be, complete with chatty DJs, there's stony silence and the faint snuffling of some animal. Ethan reaches to change the station back to the news, but CJ stops him.  
  
 "Leave it there," she says. "The music will be back in a bit."  
  
Ethan reluctantly sets his hand back on his Rubix cube. He tilts his head thoughtfully, then looks back to CJ.  
  
"A little ironic," he says. "We wait for our instant entertainment, so accustomed to gratification the moment we snap our fingers, while paying no mind to the people involved in making our entertainment. We're so focused on the fact that we are entertained that we don't think about the people that created our entertainment. We take it all for granted until we don't have it anymore— like, listen. The radio is silent because the DJs are dead, and all we think about is when the music will be back."  
  
CJ stops the car and looks him straight in the eye. A long silence passes, neither sibling breaking eye contact.  
  
"Ethan," CJ finally says. "I know we're all lame rats in a wheel, chasing in vain the cheese being dangled before us by modern media and technology, but oh my God chill."  
  
Ethan doesn't know how to respond to that. He goes back to his Rubix cube as CJ starts driving again. The silence ends with more classic rock. CJ doesn't comment on how he must like this station, considering that it's free of that dreaded pop music, and focuses on driving.  
  
They drive through town without conversation until CJ's phone rings. She gives it to Ethan to answer.  
  
"I'm driving," she explains, when he looks at her in confusion. "You can't talk on the phone and drive, it's dangerous."   
  
"CJ, you're going sixty on a country road," Ethan points out. CJ doesn't see his point. Ethan answers the phone anyway.  
  
_"UGH. RATS. EVERYWHERE. CJ, please tell me you're having a better time than I am."_  
  
It's Eva. "This is Ethan," he shouts into the phone, louder than the rattling of loose gravel beneath the tires. "What about rats?"  
  
_"They're everywhere, that's what's about rats! Ugh, whoever says high school is the best time of your life clearly never had to live through an uprising of rodents. Do you know how many rodents live in Harlem, Ethan? Do you?"_  
  
"No," Ethan says bluntly. "I don't really care, either."  
  
 "Give me the phone," CJ sighs, pulling over. She takes the phone from Ethan and listens to Eva grumbling about stupid mutant rats.  
  
_"So, server-master, what's your plan?"_ Eva asks. CJ can picture it now— Eva with an entrail-stained crowbar in a holster on her back, one hand on her hip as she stands in the middle of a sea of dead mutant sewer rats.  
  
"My plan?" CJ is confused. "What are you talking about? I mean, right now I'm making sure everyone is alive."  
  
_"No, like, are you coming up to New York or what?"_ Eva demands. _"I mean, I can't go down there. I'm the leader of the Harlem Militia. Plus, Georgia's humidity would make my hair frizz out like you wouldn't believe."_  
  
"I planned on it," CJ promises. "Erik is going to try and collect Cecil from LA, and I'll probably end up meeting Walker halfway. Can you hold out until then?"  
  
_"Oh, I've got Helia,"_ Eva answers, like it's not even a question. _"Best student doctor this side of the Atlantic, y'know."_  
  
_"Eva, stop it!"_ another voice that can only be Helia's demands.  
  
_"What? You don't want me praising you to your girlfriend?"_  
  
Helia makes an indignant noise, and Eva allows herself an amused snicker. _"Anyway,"_ she says. _"Hurry up here, will you? Harlem's still standing, and I intend to keep it that way."_  
  
"Alright, I will," CJ promises. "I'll— _WHAT THE SHIT THAT'S FIRE._ "  
  
CJ drops the phone and throws the car into reverse just as a wall of fire erupts from the side of the road. Ethan grabs the safety bar again, his Rubix cube tumbling off his lap and onto the floor. It didn't catch anything flammable, by some miracle, because the fire stops the next second. A little black girl Ethan's age with a gas tank thicker than her torso strapped to her back runs into the road, brandishing the nozzle of a flamethrower like a sword. "Die, chickens!" she cackles. "Burn at the hands of the superior species!"  
  
"Rita!" Ethan calls, sticking his head out the window. "Good, you're alive!"  
  
Rita turns her head, pushing her round glasses up on her nose. "Oh, hey."  
  
Ethan wriggles out of his seatbelt and jumps out of the car. "We were looking for you," he says. "Are you doing okay?"  
  
"I just burned my house down by accident," she admits, tucking the nozzle in its holster at her side and clutching the strap of her messenger bag. "But otherwise, I'm okay. You?"  
  
"I nearly experienced heart failiure because of CJ's bad driving," Ethan says, nonchalant. "Otherwise, I'm okay. We're headed to collect the rest of the Minutemen."  
  
"When I said we should all meet up sometime, I hope y'all know this isn't what I meant," Rita admits. "Sounds cool, though. I'm in."  
  
Ethan grins, and opens the passenger door. "Hey, CJ, will everyone fit?"  
  
"If we make Erik sit in the trunk with Minerva, sure," CJ guesses.  
  
Now that the fire is gone, CJ picks up the phone. Ethan can hear Eva yelling indignantly, demanding to know what's happening, Spanish profanity peppering her words.  
  
"We found Rita," CJ answers, in brief, classic rock blaring from the radio. This time it's something meandering from 1985. Considering the atmosphere, it's more than a little dissonant. "We're headed north. I never got to ask, is Helia doing okay as part of your militia?"  
  
_"I'm fine,"_ Helia's muffled voice calls, grabbing the phone from Eva. _"But I've looted every convenience store on the block for Band-aids and peroxide. These rats don't cut deep, but they cut often. You be careful too, alright?"_  
  
"Just stay safe," CJ insists. "Don't put yourself in harm's way."  
  
_"I could say the same for you,"_ Helia teases. _"Try not to die on your way up, alright? For me?"_  
  
"For you," CJ promises. In the background, Eva drawls something that sound suspiciously like _"Gaaaaaaay."_  
  
CJ ignores this. "I'll see you up there," she says. "Alright? Hang in there until then."  
  
_"I'll keep Eva in line, don't worry."_ Eva makes a noise of protest, but then Helia hangs up.  
  
CJ tucks her phone in one of the cupholders, then leans back and takes a Snapple from the cooler in the backseat. She pops it open with a hiss from the can, takes a swig with her elbow out the open window of the car, and looks back over to Ethan in the shotgun seat. "Which way to the interstate?"  
  
Ethan pulls a map out of the glove compartment. CJ starts the car again, skidding at sixty miles per hour down a Georgia country road.


	2. Cow Tipping, as in Tipping done by Cows

The road is not empty as CJ drives. Cars sit turned over and vacated in the breakdown lanes and off the side of the interstate, all makes and models, all empty. Likely vacated in the panic when the sky opened, CJ figures. Poor saps left their cars when the crack appeared, only to run into their deaths to the deadly creatures out there.  
  
They loot a few of them. CJ has stolen several gallons of gas and a bundle of jumper cables from a pickup truck, a crate full of peanut butter, instant noodles, and canned soup from a minivan, and a pair of aviator shades from a sports car. Rita flips through a book of New York Times crossword puzzles in the backseat, leaning against the cooler and a pillow also stolen from another car, and Ethan sits shotgun with his sneakers on the dashboard, playing with his Rubix cube. He solves it in eight turns, mixes it up, then solves it in ten. CJ has one hand on the steering wheel and the other elbow out the window, a can of cherry Coke in her hand. The can says to share a Coke with Keith. CJ has never known a Keith in her life and she doesn't think she ever will.  
  
"Anyone need to pee?" CJ asks.  
  
 "No," Ethan and Rita chorus.  
  
CJ grunts acknowledgement, then looks back at the empty road. This road is paved much more smoothly, so her illegal speed isn't as dangerous— Ethan is grateful for this, though until they got on the interstate, he was gripping the safety bar so hard his knuckles went white.  
  
"You sure?" CJ asks, again.  
  
"Yes," Ethan and Rita chorus, again.  
  
CJ grunts acknowledgement, again. The radio has not changed stations from 'Best of the 80s and 90s' for the two hours it's been since they left their hometown— CJ thinks they must be coming up on the Georgia-Tennessee state line soon, because it can't just be hills and cities forever. But that's certainly what it feels like, and CJ is beginning to get scared the apocalypse has tripled the size of the Earth, despite that being both scientifically impossible and highly unlikely.  
  
The radio is playing another song from the eighties with a poppy synthesizer beat, about a boy that makes the singer happy enough to celebrate knowing him. CJ doesn't get it, but it's better than listening to Ethan's Rubix cube clicking and Rita's pencil in her crossword puzzle book.

  "What's the big deal about boys, anyway?" Rita wonders. "What's worth celebrating? They're not that great. They're just boys."  
  
"Boys are okay," Ethan points out. "I think I am, anyway."  
  
"You're right, Ethan," Rita replies. "You are okay, until you say things like that, which is just annoying."  
  
"I am an annoying person," Ethan has to say, making CJ sigh. "It's just my nature."  
  
"Why am I even friends with you?" Rita questions. She pulls out a pair of thick headphones (they're pink, CJ notices, and they have a pair of dragon-ear decorations on the sides) and puts them on, effectively shutting out Ethan.  
  
Ethan scowls, and goes back to his Rubix cube. The song changes to country-rock from the same era. The Classics, Ethan would say. CJ considers herself lucky that Ethan isn't saying it now— it's already been a long, long car ride. She's certain by the time they stop for the night, everyone will be all over everyone else's last nerve.   
  
"We're not even in Alabama," CJ mutters. "Hey, Ethan, how far away are we from Alabama?"  
  
"We're a state east," Ethan replies. "Can we change the station now? I hate country music."  
  
"Ironic, considering you love classic rock and this is most definitely classic rock," CJ replies. "And you live in Georgia. And also, no. It'll be over in like, three minutes."  
  
They drive in silence for almost a minute before the cows attack.  
  
It's not that type of attack. CJ has to stop the car when she sees the giant hole in the highway, and a crater in the ground around it. It's a hole that looks like it's going right to the center of the Earth, the ground around it twisted and melted in hellish-looking goo. It steams even in the summer air, the tarmac shimmering rainbow colors like spilled oil where it twists and blends with the melted soil.  
  
"What in—" CJ mutters. "Stay in the car, kids." She drains the rest of her cherry Coke and crushes the can on the dashboard, then tucks the flattened can in her pocket. She leans out the window, lifting her stolen aviator shades onto her forehead— with her ever-present baseball cap turned backwards, they stay. Then she gets out, taking her baseball bat with her, just as a rule.  
  
Ethan climbs over the car seat and leans out the window. CJ pushes her sunglasses back down, idly cracking her knuckles. Supposedly the monster that caused the hole in the road was nearby— and supposedly Ethan and Rita were safer in the car. CJ didn't really know how true that was, but she had a feeling that they'd be fine, since CJ usually went on gut instincts and she was well aware of this genre of adventure. Nobody ever died in the second chapter unless they happened to be in Game of Thrones, or if they were a parental figure destined to die by way of origin story. Considering nobody had gotten disemboweled or eaten by a dragon, she was sure it wasn't Game of Thrones, and none of them were parents to anything. They were probably going to be fine.  
  
She inspects the hole in the ground. As far as she can see, it goes on forever. Because it's something she's always wanted to do, and for literally no other reason, she spits into it.   
  
_I could chuck my phone in there,_ she thinks. _It'd probably go all the way down and smash into a zillion pieces at the bottom and I'd never get it again. Wait, what?_  
  
CJ blinks. Why exactly would she do that? For another few seconds, she acknowledges the paralyzing fear she has of, somehow, losing control of her impulses and throwing her phone in there anyway, and then picks up a chunk of asphalt the size of a baseball. To appease the thought, she throws it down into the hole as hard as she can, and hears a clatter echo from the bottom a second later. That wasn't so bad.  
  
She looks around, tugging at her baseball cap. The air is still— she'd say too still, but it's not, because the breeze still blows and the sun still shines. So when the man-cow hits her in the side with a two-by-four and she lands on her back a foot from the hole in the ground, it's an understandable surprise.  
  
Her head rings. Ethan is yelling something. She stands up, fumbling with her baseball bat, and abruptly drops it.  
  
She's heard of minotaur before— from Latin class. Half-man, half-bull. Only this thing is most definitely not a minotaur, because although it's semi-bipedal and intelligent enough to use weapons, it's definitely more bull than man.  
  
The creature bellows. It forgets its weapon and moves to punch CJ into oblivion with a meaty fist. Pain explodes when CJ hits the ground again. 'Sweet Home Alabama' isn't helping the pounding in her head. She's going to call this thing Murder Cow.  
  
"Hit him back!" Ethan yells. He's rolled back the sunroof and has a foot on the dashboard, his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. "Damn it, CJ, hit him back!"  
  
CJ can't respond. Murder Cow tries to smash her with the two-by-four like he's using a hammer, and CJ rolls to the side. Her hands are shaking. She sees her baseball bat on Murder Cow's other side. She makes a mad dash for it— turns out Murder Cow doesn't like that, and swings at her again.  
  
She hears Ethan say a string of words a twelve-year-old should definitely not be saying. CJ snatches her bat and grips it for dear life. Not that it helps much when Murder Cow bellows loud enough to make CJ wince and cover her ears.  
  
A mistake. Murder Cow swings again, but Ethan hurls a grenade into his open mouth. Murder Cow gags and staggers backwards. For a moment, CJ is stunned.  
  
"Hit him, for pete's sake!" Ethan shouts, preparing another grenade. Rita crouches on the roof of the car and preps her flamethrower. "CJ, hit him! Hit him right in the—"  
  
"Right in the man-cow-boob!" Rita finishes.  
  
 CJ blinks. It takes her a moment, but she runs forward and jams her bat right under Murder Cow's sternum. His eyes bug out, and he gags on the grenade in his throat. In less than a second, the grenade explodes, and with it, Murder Cow's head. CJ shields her arms from the viscera that goes flying, and Ethan ducks back into the car. The windows are splattered with gore, and CJ herself makes a noise of disgust when the stench hits her nose.  
  
"That sucked," she mutters. "Nice aim."  
  
Ethan climbs out of the car and jumps off the roof. "You could've gotten killed!" he says, frantic. "What were you _thinking_ , just standing there? Stupid! And that was distinctly not a man-cow-boob!"  
  
"You'd say it differently if _you_ were the one getting attacked by Murder Cow!" CJ protests. "And anyway, we beat him, didn't we?"  
  
"Still, that looked like it hurt," Ethan sighs, as CJ shakes the blood off her hands and baseball shirt. "We'll send you in with a raincoat next time. Less messy."  
  
"It'll take ages to get this out," CJ grumbles. "Good thing we packed extra shirts, huh?"  
  
"Your head," Rita comments, climbing out the sunroof and sitting on the roof of the car. "Are you okay?"   
  
"I'll be fine," CJ guesses. "Probably. Wasn't that bad."  
  
Ethan is not convinced. Quicker than CJ can react, he grabs her phone from her pocket. Helia is in her favorites list as _birb_ , with two sparkly heart emoji on either side. It's not hard to figure out who is who.  
  
"So, hi," Ethan says into the phone once Helia picks up, while playing keep-away with his sister's phone. "Listen, I need your medical expertise."  
  
 _"Is CJ dead?"_ Helia asks immediately. _"No, no, that can't be it. Is somebody else dead? Are you on the verge of death, or is anybody else? I can't stop death. I'm a doctor, not Jesus, and for that matter, I don't think Jesus could stop death, either. I could be wrong. My Christian theology is rusty."_  
  
"Man, I don't know," Ethan replies. "And I don't really care, either. CJ's not dead, nor is anyone else we care about, that I know of, but we just fought a cow."  
  
"A murder cow!" CJ shouts, grabbing for the phone. " _Damn_ it, Ethan— give me the damn—"  
  
Ethan ducks under CJ's wild grab for her cell phone, dancing around the other side of the car and vaulting himself into the passenger's seat. "Given the difficulty she's having trying to catch me, I think a concussion is possible. Maybe busted ribs. So what do we do?"  
  
 _"What!"_ Helia shrieks. _"Make her stop moving, that's what! What do her pupils look like? Is she vomiting? Is there any bleeding?"_  
  
"I'm fine!" CJ shouts, finally making a wild sweep and snatching her phone from Ethan's hand. "I don't think I need medical attention. If I start feeling bad, I'll look for the nearest city and camp out in the hospital as long as they'll let me."  
  
 _"Hospitals are overflowing, CJ,"_ Helia says, ever the reasonable one. _"Even if they do let you wait for a checkup, there's no guarantee you'll get one before you— I don't know— fracture your skull, or something. Knowing you, you'll manage that somehow."_  
  
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," CJ grumbles.  
  
 _"Look, I worry about you, you know that,"_ Helia sighs. _"These— these Leeroy Jenkins tendencies won't fly in real life! This isn't a game."_  
  
"Why do I have the feeling we'll be hearing that a lot from here on out?" Rita mumbles, which goes ignored.  
  
"I'll be alright, Helia," CJ promises, her voice steadying. "Believe it or not, I really don't feel that bad. So, yeah, I took a few hits, but I think I'll be alright enough to drive up there. If it makes you feel better, we'll stop for the night after dinner. How's that sound?"  
  
Helia heaves a huge sigh. _"You really know how to reassure me, CJ,"_ she mutters. _"But I guess that's the best I'll get out of you. You'd better rest through the night, then— doctor's orders!"_  
  
"Alright, alright," CJ cedes. "I'll see you soon, though, alright? You can fuss over me then."  
  
 _"You'd_ better _let me fuss over you,"_ Helia huffs. She pauses, listening to some shouting coming from the other end. _"I have to go. Did I tell you I got an unofficial job as a nurse with the Red Cross?"_  
  
"Oh, that's great!" CJ says, and means it. "Congrats. You'll do awesome."  
  
 _"Yeah, well, they need me, so,"_ Helia continues. _"I'll call you back later. Love you. Drive safe."_  
  
"I will. Love you too," CJ replies. Helia hangs up a second later, and CJ waits for the line to shut off before pulling her phone from her ear.  
  
Nirvana is playing and Ethan and Rita are staring at her. It sinks in what she said, but CJ doesn't let it show. Some things, you can't recover from.  
  
"You can change the station now," CJ says. "I hate Nirvana."   
  
Ethan turns the radio off. Nobody says a word.


	3. Minerva the Mavax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *zenyatta voice* gays

A college dropout walks out of a MacDonalds at twenty past ten. He stuffs the reciept in his pocket, takes out his cell phone, and feeds his dragon a large frozen steak. It sounds like a joke— but it's real, and Erik is living it.  
  
Minerva trills as she scarfs the steak, tearing into it with her massive jaws studded with black rock. Her long, leathery tail wags side to side, smashing one overturned minivan and knocking over a row of mailboxes. She's still not used to being twelve feet long. Erik supposes that makes sense.  
  
He calls up Cecil. It's a gamble, whether Cecil will answer or not, but Erik has a hunch he will, this time— he knows his man.  
  
Two rings. "Erik? Is that you?"  
  
Erik grunts. "As me as I ever am, I think."  
  
"Ah, good," Cecil says, pleased. "I've accessed traffic light footage from my van showing you on what is either a large bike or a small tank, but they're so grainy, I can only assume by the pink scarf."  
  
"You know my scarf so well," Erik gently prods. It's fairly flat, and blunt, but Erik has never been fond of minced words and euphemisms. Neither has Cecil— it's why they work.  
  
"I can never forget it," Cecil replies. "The sight of it blowing majestically in the wind as you ride by on your motorized steed, silver moonlight glinting off the shiny plastic of your helm— who needs a knight in shining armor when you have a motorcyclist for a boyfriend?"  
  
"I'm afraid my motorized steed has met with a rather unfortunate break," Erik admits. "An aligator. Several, actually. Somehow, I knew living in New Orleans was a bad idea, but something tells me had I tried to explain to my father exactly why this was, he wouldn't have believed me."  
  
"An aligator?" Erik can practically hear Cecil's eyebrows shoot up in alarm. "Interesting."  
  
"But as of recent events," Erik continues. "Minerva has filled that spot."  
  
"Minerva, your dog?" Cecil asks.  
  
"Not a dog anymore," Erik says, looking back at Minerva tearing into meat. "She started growing, and her fur fell off, and now I think she's more dragon than dog."  
  
"A dragon!" Cecil yelps. Erik hears papers flutter and the typing of excitable fingers on a keyboard. "Does she have wings?"  
 "No. But at the rate she's growing, I wouldn't be surprised if they sprouted any day now." He's calm— it's not like freaking out would help, when his dog is turning into a dragon.  
  
"My goodness," Cecil marvels. "I'd done rudimentary research on the mutated animals that soemhow maintained their domesticity, but this— this is entirely new! And you say she's still domesticated? And—" He launches a barrage of questions about Erik's ex-dog, about ground speed and mannerisms and behaviors and eating patterns.  
  
"I don't know," Erik interrupts. "Where are you? If you really want to know about Minerva, I should just bring her to you."  
  
"Oh, Kansas, I think," Cecil guesses. "I've refurbished an old Storm Chasers van for my use. The cell service out here is abysmal, though."  
  
"No fooling," Erik remarks. "I think we're all meeting up in New York. CJ told me she's going there to make sure Helia's alright, and apparently there's some militia up in Harlem that Eva's leading, so they can't very well up and leave."  
  
"I wonder what she thinks will happen once we all get there?" Cecil wonders. "No matter, no matter. I'll set my course there. Hopefully this peculiarity is the extent of the apocalypse."  
  
"The day is young," Erik shrugs, scratching Minerva behind her ear. Her tail wags and causes more property damage, and her long tongue hangs out of her mouth. Apparently dragons slobber just as much as greyhounds do. If her spit starts melting holes in the concrete, Erik is going to have to train some new ways for her to show affection. It wouldn't do for him to die every time his gigantic mutant puppy got excited. That'd make her sad.  
  
"I wouldn't joke if I were you," Cecil says. He can hear the van starting on the other end of the line. "Fate loves curveballs."  
  
"You think this was all fated?" Erik asks, raising an eyebrow. He sits down on the curb, and Minerva plops down next to him, tail wagging. She's a bit big to have her head on Erik's knee like she likes to do, but settles for having it next to him. He continues scratching her ear. "I thought it was like, global warming, or something."  
  
"Maybe?" Cecil has to speak louder over the noisy Storm Chasers van. "It's not that I believe in fate or anything. I just have the feeling that maybe, all of this happened on purpose."  
  
"If that's true," Erik sighs through his nose. "I'm going to have a serious talk with them. I'll knock on their door, they'll answer, and I punch them in the face. And then maybe kick them in the ribs a few times for good measure."  
  
"So violent," Cecil says. "And then you'll leave?"  
  
"For a bit," Erik admits. "But only for as long as it takes me to get the sledgehammer. Which isn't long, because I've taken to keeping it within reach at all times. And then the sledgehammer will do the talking."  
  
"Lord have mercy if someone mugs you," Cecil mutters.  
  
"They destroyed the _world_ , Cec," Erik says. "I won't let that go."  
  
Shuffling on the other end of the line. Cecil is probably nodding. "Bleak as it may seem now, I think we'll make it through," he says. "Looking at the facts. If all that's happening is the… weather and crazy animals, humanity can adapt to that. The population drop was scary, yes, but as long as nothing like meteor rain or the zombie virus strikes, things will be fine."  
  
"If you say so," Erik shrugs. He'll leave optimism to the optimists. "Drive safe, alright?"  
  
"I will," Cecil promises. "I'l see you in Harlem."  
  
Erik debates for a minute whether it's too forward this early in their relationship to say "I love you," because if any is a time to say it, it's when a road trip could literally kill your boyfriend, but Cecil hangs up before he can try.  
  
He sighs. Then he looks at Minerva, who tilts her head. For all the scales and giant lethal teeth and being twelve feet long, she still looks a lot like a dog.  
  
"I love you, Minervykins," he says. And because he's certain nobody is around to mock or squeal at him for it, he smooches her big dragon-doggy forehead. Minerva wags her tail, and smashes a station wagon.  
  
But, he decides, he's been stopped long enough. He scratches Minerva's neck and stands, taking hold of the belt looped loosely around her neck. The two walk down the empty Virginia streets, on their way to a city under siege. It's almost a peaceful scene, worthy of a photograph— perhaps it's part of a piece on how human-animal companionship remains even in trying times, or something. Or maybe that's bullshit and it's just a walk. Sometimes a cigar really is just a cigar.  
  
And then the raptor-goose swoops down from the clouds and all Hell breaks loose.  
  
Minerva snarls, and the goose shrieks. It's definitely a goose, as near as Erik can figure, though he's on the ground and the goose is pecking and snarling above him. He's too stunned to react for a moment. It's lucky that Minerva roars and pounces on the goose, tackling it to the tarmac. Erik scoots backwards, hand around his trusty sledgehammer.  
  
If he were CJ, he'd stand there and take a few hits until his adrenaline reaction stopped screaming bloody murder. But he's not CJ and has been in many more fights than that, and knows what to expect. So he charges forwards and swings the hammer onto the raptor-goose's wing.  
  
It shrieks in pain. Minerva snaps at it, and Erik dodges her waving tail. He hits the ground again, skidding on the asphalt, but rolls and comes up standing. He shakes the pebbles from his hair.  
  
He charges again, not sure whether it's him screaming or the dragon-dog, ready to bash its bird-brain in, but that doesn't go as planned. The bird shrieks. Minerva roars. And then there's talons on his chest and wind flapping his hair around, and oh, his feet aren't on the ground anymore.  
  
Everything is spinning. His sunglasses are somewhere other than his face. His sledgehammer is somewhere other than his hand. Minerva is snarling and snapping, and the bird is shrieking, flapping, and he's falling, flying, falling again. Erik is being tossed around like a rag doll. He does not like it one bit.  
  
And then the bird lets go, and he hits the ground. He feels an explosion of red behind his eyes. He curls, hands on the back of his head. Everything hurts. He had no idea it was possible for everything to hurt this much.  
  
His mouth is full of blood. He spits it onto the tarmac, and when he opens his eyes, he sees half a tooth there. Wonderful.  
  
Before he can drag himself up and run the fuck away like a sensible human being, he hears something through the haze of his screaming head. He can't make out the words— something about eating bird brains?  
  
He squints. The bird is over him again, Minerva snarling and preparing to bite again. It's bleeding heavily and dragging a busted wing behind it. It hops, and opens its lethal beak. Erik braces himself for death. So it has come to this.  
  
There's a sound like _ka-chunk_. A sizzle, like something set on fire. And then a flaming hockey puck flying at ten miles an hour beans Erik's would-be murderer right in the eye.  
  
The bird shrieks and staggers off of Erik, using its claw-tipped wings to swat at the fact that its face is now on fire. And then Minerva, now with the element of surprise, tears into it like it's steak night. There's blood everywhere. Erik is still stunned.  
  
And then his savior steps into his field of vision. With the darkness and guttering streetlights behind the figure, all Erik can see is that they're big, they're bulky, and they have some kind of homemade projectile launcher strapped to their arm. They offer Erik a hand. He takes it.  
  
"Thanks for that," he says.  
  
The figure grunts. They give a thumbs-up.  
  
Erik squints. He'd know that grunt anywhere "Walker?"  
  
The figure nods. In the dim light, Erik can see she's grinning. She waves.  
  
Erik heaves a sigh. "Am I glad to see you," he says. Minerva, done with her snack, trots over to Erik and nudges her head under his arm. He scratches behind her ears. Minerva is happy.  
  
Walker gestures to her vehicle— a snowplow, if Erik isn't mistaken. He has to wonder where she got it, since Walker is fifteen and can't legally drive without a parent, but he isn't about to argue with the girl that just saved his life. So he climbs into the snowplow and watches Walker do the same.  
  
Erik has only ever Skyped Walker once or twice, but he knows she's not fond of talking. Walker is big and dark with short, almost shaved hair, and little pearl earrings in her ears. She leans back in the driver's seat of the snowplow. She's wearing a purple raincoat over a gray sweatshirt, both unzipped, and a t-shirt with a Canadian flag below that. She pulls her phone out of one pocket of her cargo shorts, and texts Erik a message.  
  
 _ **Walker**_  
 _Lucky I got here, yeah?_  
  
"You don't need to text," Erik says. "We're face-to-face."  
  
Another message.  
  
 _ **Walker**_  
 _I don't like talking. Better this way._  
  
That's fair. Erik shrugs. "So what were you doing in Virginia? I thought you hated the south."  
  
 _ **Walker**_  
 _I do. I was on my way to CJ. She's in Florida?_  
  
"No, Georgia," Erik replies. Walker nods in understanding. "And not anymore, I don't think. She told me she and the kids were headed North. They've probably crossed into Tennessee by now."  
  
 ** _Walker_**  
 _On the way to New York?_  
  
"Seems to be where everyone's meeting," Erik shrugs.  
  
 ** _Walker_**  
 _Let's go there too, then._  
 _Can I ask about the dragon?_  
  
"That's Minerva," Erik explains. "Mutated. Cec was fascinated. But she's still the same old overgrown puppy she always has been."  
  
 _ **Walker**_  
 _She's cute._  
 _Made short work of that bird, too. I didn't have to intervene as much as I thought I would._  
  
"I, for one, am glad both of you were here," Erik gives Walker a hesitant thankful pat on the shoulder. Walker doesn't seem to mind. "I'd be much more dead if neither of y'all had been around. And you can't do shit if you're dead."  
  
 _ **Walker**_  
 _Yeah_  
 _We should move on. Wasting time. Can Minerva follow?_  
  
"I'll tell her to," Erik says. Walker nods, and puts her phone away. After telling Minerva the plan, and picking up his hammer and his shades, he tosses his stuff in the backseat and says, "Where did you get a snowplow, anyway?"  
  
Walker grins, and puts a finger to her lips. Some things are better left unsaid.


	4. Cecil Does Cryptozoology

Somewhere nearby the Kansas-Missouri state line, a battered Storm Chasers van sits just off the highway. There's a smashed fruit stand made of wood painted bright blue, though it doesn't seem to have been smashed by the van. The mass of fruit was probably really good once, but now it's mostly food for the swarms of insects. That's alright, Cecil figures. If they're busy with the fruit mush, they're not going to bother him.  
  
Cecil's overworked computer whirrs in the unnatural heat. Vaporwave plays from the speakers, which vibrate when the bass kicks in. On the tiny pull-down desk, the sound makes his Gatorade vibrate in the plastic bottle. _UNDOING ONLINE_ is pulled up on his computer, but he hasn't tried to connect to a server or open the lackluster signleplayer mode, and is in fact absently watching NBC live despite the low-quality video reception out in the middle of nowhere. There are sticky notes on the walls with (not very good) drawings of mutated animals. He's named them— the ex-chickens are Scratchy Squawkers, the cow-people are Moo-Men, the aligators that nearly took Erik's hand off are Bitey-Snaps, the wasps are Fuck-This-Shits, and the crows ominously circling his van waiting for him to come out so they can attack him are the Screechy-Flappers. Nobody ever said he's named them _well_.  
  
Outside, the Screechy-Flappers settle ominously on the power lines. They're still powered, because people are still alive to work in the power plants, but Cecil supposes that one day there won't be power anymore. He does not look forward to that. But the Screechy-Flappers don't care one way or another. Cecil does, because he'd rather not be pecked to death.  
  
Cecil leans over the milk crate he uses as a chair to switch to the exterior camera feed. He pushes a hotkey on the keyboard and shoots a pellet at the birds. Some of them scatter, only to recongregate after flapping around for a second and a half. Cecil scowls. Stupid Screechy-Flappers.  
  
He sits on the milk crate and clicks back to the newscast. Hank Rosengast, the one with the impossible hair and uncannily smooth Barbie-doll features, shuffles papers and talks about how the Republicans are blaming the influx of immigrants for the crack in the sky, and one particular branch of it are particularly insistent about standing on the steps of hospitals and screaming that the wave of death that spanned the world is God taking His faithful to Heaven, and the sinners need to repent so they won't spend their afterlives in purgatory. Cecil is no longer surprised that chaos happens where the faithful and the fearful intersect.  
  
_"And in other news,"_ Rosengast says, flipping with his controller to a new story. _"In a strange turn of events, the scientists at NASA are not recieving any unusual data whatsoever from the weather balloons they sent into the crack. But whatever is on the other side appears to be sunny with a light southwest breeze, and a temperature of eighty-two degrees. They've sent twelve up already and plan to send more. For more information, the NBC Twitter, at-NBCOfficial, has reporters tweeting live details about the story, moving on—"_  
  
Weather balloons. Cecil jots that down in his battered notebook. He's not sure why, but it feels important. Maybe he'll find out. The rest of the broadcast isn't as relevant to him— it's talking about the same things that have been on everyone's mind for the past day and a half, and it's mostly _"what the fuck is going on."_  
  
He switches tabs to an archive of loosely-connected conspiracy theories from the past twenty-some years. Most of it is boring— dull things pulled from social media and the news of the time that Cecil doesn't waste his time with. But one catches his eye: _"MYSTERIOUS BALLOONS APPEARING IN THE SKY OVER HOUSTON: FALLOUT FROM THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS?"_  
  
Well, damn. He's not usually proven right so quickly. The post before the readmore reads _"In the summer of 2010, hundreds if not more mysterious weather balloons with hi-tech equipment and NASA labels appeared in the sky over Houston, out of what seemed to be a clear, sunny day. But what was really going on on that summer afternoon, since Nasa denied all involvement? Could it be Trump's inability to keep his mouth shut about classified information that caused aliens to hijack our technology and send their drones after him? More below."_  
  
There's a video. Cecil, pushing his glasses up on his nose, hits play. It's vertical, filmed on somebody's old smartphone. A square-looking man in a backwards baseball cap and a polo shirt is standing on a porch. He's holding his phone out like he's about to video a selfie with the balloons. _"Hey, Rebecca, is it straight? Do I look alright?"_ he's saying. He adjusts the collar of his polo shirt.  
  
_"Charlie, turn around,"_ a woman, probably Rebecca, says. _"Charlie, look!"_ And she runs to the railing, and points to the sky. She's an Indian woman with long, dark hair and violet fingernails, and a red jacket with the sleeves pushed up.  
  
Charlie turns. He nearly drops the phone. _"Holy shit!"_ he says. _"Where'd those come from?"_  
  
His friend shrugs. She turns— Cecil has to do a double-take because it's uncanny how much she looks like CJ in profile, except Rebecca has glasses, and CJ has blue eyes, not brown. _"They just appeared?"_ Rebecca says, in the video, which is now getting a close view of Charlie's khaki shorts. _"Behind you? I don't know, I— I don't remember seeing them there a minute ago?"_  
  
_"Oh man, that's wild,"_ Charlie says. He lifts the phone again. _"Hey, I'm gonna get a selfie with the balloons and see if they feature it on the news— you think they would? Hey, Rebecca, where—"_  
  
The video ends there. _"Above: One Charlie Justice and his wife Rebecca submitted this video to NASA asking about the weather balloons— and recieved no answer. Where do the lies stop, government?"_  
  
Cecil figures it's just a coincidence— even if they are related, what would CJ and Ethan do with that information? Doppelgangers exist. The couple in the video may well be dead, and anyway, it's not Cecil's business. But he saves the video and bookmarks the link, just in case.  
  
The post continues, _"Just where did these mysterious balloons come from? Relating to one of my earlier posts on how Donald Trump's blabbermouth and general failiure as a politician is actually a ploy by our secret alien overlords to ensure that nobody believes the secrets in Area 51 and other restricted spaces on U.S. soil, I propose that the weather balloons are an attempt at a diversion from—"_  
  
And the rest is boring and irrelevant, like most of the vintage conspiracy theory blogs he follows. But he keeps the bookmark anyway— CJ and Ethan, related to these people or not, are going to be interested in an apparent doppelganger. He closes the laptop, climbs into the driver's seat of his van, and starts eastward through seemingly infinite cornfields.

**Author's Note:**

> i know full well posting original shit here is like screaming into the void but whatever man it needs to go somewhere


End file.
